He laid on the bed on the salesfloor, nursing his hangover, enjoying a respite from the overwhelmingness a trip to IKEA always brings.

I walked towards him, eager to rouse him and finish our trip. Enough of this dillydallying – let’s get out of here. Chop chop. No time to waste.

He looked up at me, smiling. “Hey, what’s it take to get room service around here?”

I nudged Stas. “What’s he eating?” I tilted my head to the right, to the giant white utility pick-up truck stopped beside us at the light.

He looked. Our top was down, as was his window. “Hey, what you got there?”

The elderly man smiled. “Ribs…” he drawled.

In his hand was a huge chunk of barbecued meat, glistening, smelling delicious.

“Where’d you get it?” I asked, eager to follow suit.

“Made it…” he drawled again, a trickle of sauce slowly making its way down his thumb.

This time it was Stas’ turn. “Got anymore?” he asked.

The old man smiled as he ripped off another bite. “Nope…” we heard as the light turned green and the man and his meat disappeared.

Emily handed me the tissue-wrapped package. I laughed because I already knew what it was; earlier in the day she had shown me the purses she had brought back from Argentina and asked me what color I wanted.

I feigned surprise. “I love it! It’s the perfect color!” We laughed and she instructed me to look inside. I opened the purse; I beheld my favorite brand of lip balm, which surprisingly you can only buy outside of the US, and a small black box, vaguely familiar.

I know it’s a Greek tradition to include money inside a new purse, is it an Argentinean one to include condoms? I looked at her somewhat perplexed.

“They’re not condoms – read the package!” she giggled.

GET IN! Lubricante Intimo

The best name for a product ever.

“Are you a member of our frequent buyer program?” he asked me as I purchased several birthday cards.

“No,” I said as I handed him cash.

“Would you like to be?”

I thought. One more card to keep up with. I join all these programs then lose the cards. “Sure.”

“You know, we have locations everywhere, not just in San Francisco. Even in the Midwest.”

I look like I’m from the Midwest? Oh, Lord.

… from New Year’s Day.

“I know where I think I was at midnight…”

The party invitation went out – bring out your best 80’s attire and re-experience the magic of prom, New Year’s Eve. Growing up in the south (in the 80’s) prom was a very belle-ish occasion. Big skirts (be careful of that hoop now, ya’ hear?), lots of ruffles, and single strands of pearls.

I thought back to my prom experiences. One year one girl had made everyone’s tongues wag because, horror of horrors… she wore a straight dress! Strapless, straight, and not pastel. In she sauntered on the arm of her college-aged boyfriend. Scandal.

As New Year’s Eve fastly approached, I dreaded shopping for a hoop skirt. Where would I even find a hoop skirt in San Francisco? And then it hit me. I would be her. I would be the one in the straight dress. And I just happened to have one in my closet, a one-shouldered, red snakeskin, slinky number I bought, but where else, in Las Vegas.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so glamorous. My hair teased up, my face sparkling, my red snakeskin hugging my curves with a fur stole tossed casually over my shoulders: Welcome, 2005!

The taxi driver’s accent sounded Arabic, but I wasn’t sure.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“Guess. You will never know.”

“What is your first name?”

“Aziz.”

I thought for a moment. “Morocco.”

He spun around, eyes wide open. “How do you know? You have had Moroccan man before?”

Do not use Uniball ink pens on an airplane. I uncapped my red pen to begin editing; moments later 19F appeared to be awash in blood.

The blanket I had given her was bagged in plastic, the thin, wispy plastic that dry cleaning returns in. The “bag” was a series of knots, a makeshift container created from a flat segment. I eyed it suspiciously and shrugged my shoulders as my dad picked it up.

“Mother, why is the blanket Lori made you in a bag?” Her pale blue eyes clouded over, staring at nothing we could discern, then she slowly turned her head to the plastic-encased blanket. Dad was about to repeat his question; we were never sure if she heard us or not, whether she wanted to hear us or not.

She slowly answered, “To keep it clean.”

Figures. Ever since I was a tiny girl, my memories of my Grandmother’s house were of plastic – thick, shiny plastic covering the couches and chairs, prickly plastic runners covering the carpet, slick plastic tablecloths covering the cloth tablecloths covering the linoleum kitchen table. Why would things be any different here in the nursing home?

“Lori made it for you to put over your legs, to keep them warm when you’re in your wheelchair. When are you going to use it?” Dad asked, much louder this time.

Without hesitation she shot him a “you crazy” look. “Law, when I take it out of the bag.”

Take 1

Our homework this week was to go to an Arabic grocery store and buy oranges – burtuqaal. Without speaking any English.

Of course I waited until the last possible evening to complete this task. It’s just my way.

All week I practiced what I would say, using different phrases and variations, just in case the dialogue didn’t go like the workbook predicted it would. Italicized text indicates Arabic.

Hi. How are you? I’d like an orange. Do you have oranges? Excuse me, oranges are here? God willing, do you sell oranges? Thank you. Thank you very much. Thank you, praise God.

I walked to a corner store where I thought I had overheard Arabic before. And where there was a bin of oranges in the doorway.

Good evening.

Blank stare.

Good evening. Do you have oranges?

She turns to her husband/business partner. She pokes him and points to me.

Do you have oranges?

Burtuqaal?

Yes. Oranges.

Not here. Walgreen’s. They have burtuqaal. Two blocks down and on the right.

What in the world did he think I was asking for? I walked out. I repeated the words over and over in my head. Oh. My. God. He thought I was asking for birth control.

Take 2

I walked down to the Tenderloin thinking I would find an Arabic grocery store fairly quickly. Probably not the best idea on a dark night, walking alone in a red leather jacket.

Hey, beautiful…

Sss! Sss!

Click, click, click with tongues in cheek.

Right here, baby, I got what you want.

I ducked into the first store I saw with Arabic writing in the window. The clerk was Asian. Thought I’d give it a try anyway. After all, I had met several Arabic-speaking Koreans when I lived in Korea.

Good evening.

Blank stare.

Next.

Take 3

I continued walking, though this time away from the Tenderloin. Maybe in Russian Hill?

I spotted a sign in Arabic for a pizza parlor. Dare I try? It was a stretch. But look! Right next door. An Arabic deli and grocery.

Good evening.

Good evening. How are you?

Fine. Thank God. How are you?

Good.

Do you have oranges?

He pointed to a bin of shriveled oranges. The other man clucked. No, no, no. He ran to the back of the store.

No fresh ones. Sorry.

I picked up an orange. How much for one?

No, no, no. Free. Take as many as you’d like.

Thank you.

You’re welcome.

Peace be with you.

One hour, 18 city blocks, and 2 puckered oranges later. Success.